In our house there are two sizes. My daughters, my cats and my friends are skinny little things, who (with the exception of the cats) can dress in Barbie doll clothes.
My husband, dog and I are extra large and trying to be just large. It would seem not having an opposable thumb to open the refrigerator door would give the Lab a distinct advantage, but when she looks at us with those "I-can't-believe-you-of-all-people-would-do-this-to-me" eyes... scraps tend to fall off the table.
Charlie, my spouse, is the strongest of our inflated trio. He's started taking a healthy lunch to work and walking during his lunch hour. He's doing great and the nagging voice in the back of my head is growing louder.
I used to be able to drown it out but looking contently at the Eastern European body types of my parents and grandparents. This butt is my genetic legacy.
Sure, my 39-year-old kid brother is in great shape, but he runs, goes to the gym and has played in the same hockey league for more than two decades (and added another one this year). That's not a fitness plan, that's concussive syndrome.
But the fact is, I know what I have to do. I've done it before. I'm just not crazy about the rules (work out at least four times a week, keep calories under 1,600, fat under 25 grams and write down everything you eat). Not all that complicated, no best seller behind it fueling a fad, just good common sense foisted upon me by Lynn, the best personal trainer in the world.
Leaving the corporate world meant leaving Lynn. Getting ill meant bloating steroids. Wearing t-shirts and sweats to my home office meant I missed the gradual re-expansion (or just possibly I started wearing sweats to ignore it).
The refrain became after this trip, or that trip, or the holidays... and pretty soon I was within 10 pounds of where I started.
Losing weight was a sartorial celebration. When I was thin in my teens and 20s I never had the money to buy anything but basic clothing. The advent of real income came along with expanding size, so it was much more fun to buy clothes for my daughter.
I told myself it was practical to limit things to a few decent suits, a couple of dresses, jeans and t-shirts. Clothing was simply costumes for corporate work and every day was Halloween.
But I when Lynn and I dropped 35 pounds, I was at the peak of my earning life. I went on a delayed adolescent clothing binge of business and sportswear. I wasn't bulging anymore, but good gawd my closets were. I had the outfit for every occasion, and three or four for some.
The rainbow of wool suits sat silently all winter. At home writers don't wear coordinates, whether they fit or not. I quietly bought a few pair of jeans and some khakis to wear with t-shirts, hoodies and sweaters. Winter is shapeless, layering time.
Yesterday I moved the winter clothing to the upstairs closets and was reintroduced to my smaller, brighter, spring/summer self.
I had to move the items to make way for the winter wear and could have wimped out and moved them to another upstairs closet.
But I brought them back downstairs and hung them in my closet. Everytime I walk in to the closet they will harangue, taunt and tease. They will be merciless in reminding me what I can do if I try.
Someone has to do it.
I'm heading to the gym.


Copyright 2004 Judi Griggs